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Michael Bryant - Born June 14th, 1956 / Bitten at age 25 - September 9th, 1981
Long before Alex, Shane, and even Carol, were a part of his life, Michael Bryant was like most other children of the '50s, '60s, and '70s. It wasn't until his 25th year, on the 9th of September in 1981, that he was exposed to the supernatural and bitten by a werewolf. In less than five days, with the arrival of the full moon, he shifted for the first time, out in the wilderness north of his home. One day and five hours later, he claimed his first kill and gorged until he could no longer eat or stay awake.
The months and years that followed were quick to drill into his head that his lycanthropy had to be catered for at all times. There were cycles to track, and things he needed every month, chief among them a reliable way to get food. Within a year, he had settled on carrying a weapon or two, in case his claws, fangs, personal speed, and stealth were not enough.
As he grew used to the routines, a liking for his werewolf form emerged.
September 29th, 1985 - Sweetwater County, Wyoming
Moon Phase - Waxing Gibbous
Time Until The Shift - 8 Minutes
Hearing nothing but crickets around him, and with a final glance up at the blazing gibbous moon, Michael Bryant removed his backpack, propping it against the boulder he was sitting near. He then stripped to just his jeans and muscle shirt, and waited for the last few minutes to pass. The evening chill of the Wyoming night coated his skin in short order as his breaths blew vapor several feet forward.
Then he felt his pulse rising. The taste of blood followed, and his claws began to emerge.
As his breathing quickened and took on more of a growling edge, Michael followed the steps of his shift, reacting to each event as it hit. When his muscles began to shift in form and size, his attention went to his clothing. His muscle shirt took the strain, but still ripped in places. His jeans however… He had invested in a larger pair just for this situation, but as his leg muscles bulked, the pressure around his knees, thighs, and crotch climbed. Almost without thinking, he let his claws rend tears in the fabric to relive the pressure in those spots, tears which grew as his legs continued their change.
More cold air laid over his skin after that. The increasing heat his body was giving off kept him from noticing.
The sounds of his bones cracking came next, and he readied a paw for his chest. His feet changed first, then his face, the slack feeling of his lengthening muzzle something he still was not used to, along with other parts of the monthly shift. When his chest and ribs began to shift, his breaths were caught again, on and off within a second at times.
But at last, he felt the itchy hints of his emerging pelt, the last part of the shift. His clothing was off in short order, his fur trapping his now rapidly escaping body heat as it grew along his back, then his chest and limbs.
With only wobbly limbs to hold himself up then, Michael let him collapse onto the cold grass, the nearby stream and crickets proving soft ambience as his muzzle stayed pointed up and his eyes fixed on the moon. Already, he could smell several potential prey. The most appealing, a white-tailed deer by his estimation, was close to a mile off, to the northeast. By the time he pulled himself back to his knees and paws, the scent hadn't vanished and he settled on its source as his animal for the month.
After bagging his discarded clothing, the bow his backpack was carrying was removed. A compound model he'd invested in after drawing too much attention with his personal revolver in the past. Inside one of his backpack's pockets was a quiver of eight arrows, all with serrated, four bladed tips. The minimum he carried these days. His revolver and a spare six rounds on a speed loader remained in the other main pocket, just in case he needed it.
Once he was a good distance from the boulder, every few steps as he made his way northeast, he made quick glances left and right. His nightvision coupled with the moon gave him an edge this late at night, but letting his guard down even now was something he couldn't afford.
It laxed briefly as he considered how big his target could be. The last deer he'd felled was over a hundred and ten pounds; by the time he'd returned home with it, his fur had been soaked in the scent of its blood. His memories of that scent were quick to remind him that any minute…
His stomach growled before he finished the thought. If this deer was as big as the previous one, he'd have enough meat for a while.
* * *
As he drew closer to the area where he suspected his prey was, Michael slowed his pace drastically. He was nearing a more forested area, one he'd visited a few times to look for sources of animal scents. The area was prime for deer as he'd come to discover, and from the scents he could pick up now, at least four were present.
The grass density then lessened in favor of dirt, the overhead shine of the moonlight diminishing thanks to the trees. Strewn along the ground were branches and twigs from said trees, any one of them a potential signal to his prey that danger was close. And his stomach was still growling regularly.
His right paw then went to work pulling an arrow from the quiver inside his backpack. The stainless steel arrowhead almost seemed to glow under the remaining beams of moonlight, but instead of nocking it and risking more noise, Michael held it tight and continued to approach.
What felt like an hour went by before he saw the first hints, by way of antlers, of his prey. The buck they belonged to was of pretty good size, probably around three-quarters his own weight as a human. The way its head was resting, its antlers would block any shot he could take at its heart or chest. The thought of using his revolver instead lasted for a while, but in the end, he settled on the bow.
Until he noticed the buck move its head, Michael attempted to maneuver into a more advantageous position. Despite the evening air still blowing southwest, and him remaining downwind of the buck, his heart was racing at the possibility of it suddenly bolting. In the back of his mind, he was imagining dropping his weapon and ammo and charging at the buck, getting the drop on it before it could run. He licked his teeth and shook the thought from his head as he continued maneuvering. If he could hit the animal just…
The buck moved its head again. This time, its neck straightened and its head came to a rest atop a bit of grass.
It was then that Michael, as his breaths got caught in his throat, nocked and readied the arrow as quietly as he could. As he did, he took a moment to admire the scene, and to think of all the things he could make with the meat and skin of this one.
He pulled the arrow back until the bow and string found its holding position. Now his heart was beating even faster.
*Up a little. Bit right.*
The breezes gusted.
…
The buck didn't move.
After several more beats of his racing heart, and one final breath, Michael let the arrow fly.
It was over within a second as the arrow found its mark, the blades and shaft slicing deep into the buck's shoulder and chest. The sounds it produced from the snap of pain and fright shattered the quiet evening, their tone and severity barely rattling Michael.
It was as the animal struggled to get up that Michael noticed the first scents of its blood, and seized the opportunity. He bolted, closing the distance on the buck within a second and diving for its neck. As his fangs found it, the buck's thrashing front hooves and attempts to get up tested his focus. He held his grip, both by paws and by fangs, putting all of his weight behind them as he bit down. The buck's trachea crunched under his bite, distorting its cries. He loosened and bit again. The animal kept crying out. He could hear the rest fleeing in the distance between cries.
The cries came to an end several minutes later, and the massive body of the buck laid slack under Michael's paws. The part of him that felt sorry for the animal was buried under his sense of pride, and the hunger the animal's blood had stoked.
Ripping the arrow from its body, Michael began his feeding at the hole that was left. So much blood had soaked into the fur…
He stopped caring about the details once he'd ripped his first bite free of his kill. Another month down, and another huge catch all to himself.
(This piece is from a YCH done by
DanPinneon. Thank you again for offering the piece and your time working on it.)
(There is also a mature version of this piece, which you can find on the artist's submission page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/34629659/)
(SFW original submission: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/34629703/)
Long before Alex, Shane, and even Carol, were a part of his life, Michael Bryant was like most other children of the '50s, '60s, and '70s. It wasn't until his 25th year, on the 9th of September in 1981, that he was exposed to the supernatural and bitten by a werewolf. In less than five days, with the arrival of the full moon, he shifted for the first time, out in the wilderness north of his home. One day and five hours later, he claimed his first kill and gorged until he could no longer eat or stay awake.
The months and years that followed were quick to drill into his head that his lycanthropy had to be catered for at all times. There were cycles to track, and things he needed every month, chief among them a reliable way to get food. Within a year, he had settled on carrying a weapon or two, in case his claws, fangs, personal speed, and stealth were not enough.
As he grew used to the routines, a liking for his werewolf form emerged.
September 29th, 1985 - Sweetwater County, Wyoming
Moon Phase - Waxing Gibbous
Time Until The Shift - 8 Minutes
Hearing nothing but crickets around him, and with a final glance up at the blazing gibbous moon, Michael Bryant removed his backpack, propping it against the boulder he was sitting near. He then stripped to just his jeans and muscle shirt, and waited for the last few minutes to pass. The evening chill of the Wyoming night coated his skin in short order as his breaths blew vapor several feet forward.
Then he felt his pulse rising. The taste of blood followed, and his claws began to emerge.
As his breathing quickened and took on more of a growling edge, Michael followed the steps of his shift, reacting to each event as it hit. When his muscles began to shift in form and size, his attention went to his clothing. His muscle shirt took the strain, but still ripped in places. His jeans however… He had invested in a larger pair just for this situation, but as his leg muscles bulked, the pressure around his knees, thighs, and crotch climbed. Almost without thinking, he let his claws rend tears in the fabric to relive the pressure in those spots, tears which grew as his legs continued their change.
More cold air laid over his skin after that. The increasing heat his body was giving off kept him from noticing.
The sounds of his bones cracking came next, and he readied a paw for his chest. His feet changed first, then his face, the slack feeling of his lengthening muzzle something he still was not used to, along with other parts of the monthly shift. When his chest and ribs began to shift, his breaths were caught again, on and off within a second at times.
But at last, he felt the itchy hints of his emerging pelt, the last part of the shift. His clothing was off in short order, his fur trapping his now rapidly escaping body heat as it grew along his back, then his chest and limbs.
With only wobbly limbs to hold himself up then, Michael let him collapse onto the cold grass, the nearby stream and crickets proving soft ambience as his muzzle stayed pointed up and his eyes fixed on the moon. Already, he could smell several potential prey. The most appealing, a white-tailed deer by his estimation, was close to a mile off, to the northeast. By the time he pulled himself back to his knees and paws, the scent hadn't vanished and he settled on its source as his animal for the month.
After bagging his discarded clothing, the bow his backpack was carrying was removed. A compound model he'd invested in after drawing too much attention with his personal revolver in the past. Inside one of his backpack's pockets was a quiver of eight arrows, all with serrated, four bladed tips. The minimum he carried these days. His revolver and a spare six rounds on a speed loader remained in the other main pocket, just in case he needed it.
Once he was a good distance from the boulder, every few steps as he made his way northeast, he made quick glances left and right. His nightvision coupled with the moon gave him an edge this late at night, but letting his guard down even now was something he couldn't afford.
It laxed briefly as he considered how big his target could be. The last deer he'd felled was over a hundred and ten pounds; by the time he'd returned home with it, his fur had been soaked in the scent of its blood. His memories of that scent were quick to remind him that any minute…
His stomach growled before he finished the thought. If this deer was as big as the previous one, he'd have enough meat for a while.
* * *
As he drew closer to the area where he suspected his prey was, Michael slowed his pace drastically. He was nearing a more forested area, one he'd visited a few times to look for sources of animal scents. The area was prime for deer as he'd come to discover, and from the scents he could pick up now, at least four were present.
The grass density then lessened in favor of dirt, the overhead shine of the moonlight diminishing thanks to the trees. Strewn along the ground were branches and twigs from said trees, any one of them a potential signal to his prey that danger was close. And his stomach was still growling regularly.
His right paw then went to work pulling an arrow from the quiver inside his backpack. The stainless steel arrowhead almost seemed to glow under the remaining beams of moonlight, but instead of nocking it and risking more noise, Michael held it tight and continued to approach.
What felt like an hour went by before he saw the first hints, by way of antlers, of his prey. The buck they belonged to was of pretty good size, probably around three-quarters his own weight as a human. The way its head was resting, its antlers would block any shot he could take at its heart or chest. The thought of using his revolver instead lasted for a while, but in the end, he settled on the bow.
Until he noticed the buck move its head, Michael attempted to maneuver into a more advantageous position. Despite the evening air still blowing southwest, and him remaining downwind of the buck, his heart was racing at the possibility of it suddenly bolting. In the back of his mind, he was imagining dropping his weapon and ammo and charging at the buck, getting the drop on it before it could run. He licked his teeth and shook the thought from his head as he continued maneuvering. If he could hit the animal just…
The buck moved its head again. This time, its neck straightened and its head came to a rest atop a bit of grass.
It was then that Michael, as his breaths got caught in his throat, nocked and readied the arrow as quietly as he could. As he did, he took a moment to admire the scene, and to think of all the things he could make with the meat and skin of this one.
He pulled the arrow back until the bow and string found its holding position. Now his heart was beating even faster.
*Up a little. Bit right.*
The breezes gusted.
…
The buck didn't move.
After several more beats of his racing heart, and one final breath, Michael let the arrow fly.
It was over within a second as the arrow found its mark, the blades and shaft slicing deep into the buck's shoulder and chest. The sounds it produced from the snap of pain and fright shattered the quiet evening, their tone and severity barely rattling Michael.
It was as the animal struggled to get up that Michael noticed the first scents of its blood, and seized the opportunity. He bolted, closing the distance on the buck within a second and diving for its neck. As his fangs found it, the buck's thrashing front hooves and attempts to get up tested his focus. He held his grip, both by paws and by fangs, putting all of his weight behind them as he bit down. The buck's trachea crunched under his bite, distorting its cries. He loosened and bit again. The animal kept crying out. He could hear the rest fleeing in the distance between cries.
The cries came to an end several minutes later, and the massive body of the buck laid slack under Michael's paws. The part of him that felt sorry for the animal was buried under his sense of pride, and the hunger the animal's blood had stoked.
Ripping the arrow from its body, Michael began his feeding at the hole that was left. So much blood had soaked into the fur…
He stopped caring about the details once he'd ripped his first bite free of his kill. Another month down, and another huge catch all to himself.
(This piece is from a YCH done by
DanPinneon. Thank you again for offering the piece and your time working on it.)(There is also a mature version of this piece, which you can find on the artist's submission page: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/34629659/)
(SFW original submission: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/34629703/)
Category Artwork (Digital) / Transformation
Species Wolf
Size 1072 x 1280px
File Size 179.8 kB
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